


paint a picture with your hands

by leiascully



Series: New York AU [8]
Category: Battlestar Galactica (2003)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/M, New York AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-09-13
Updated: 2010-09-13
Packaged: 2017-10-14 07:59:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,435
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/147101
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/leiascully/pseuds/leiascully
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Call it my artistic temperament.  Call it your benefit."</p>
            </blockquote>





	paint a picture with your hands

**Author's Note:**

> Timeline: NY AU  
> A/N: Thank you, Maroon 5, for writing songs about seducing people. For [**eugis**](http://eugis.livejournal.com/) and [**stripes13**](http://stripes13.livejournal.com/). I know what you like.  
>  Disclaimer: _Battlestar Galactica_ and all related characters belong to Ronald Moore, NBC Universal, Sci-Fi Channel, and Sky One. No profit is made from this work and no infringement is intended.

>When Lee walks in, Kara's not in the apartment. Not in the apartment proper, anyway - he can hear her singing off-key in the studio. He never wants to interrupt her when she's painting. He's not creative like that. He doesn't want to get in the middle of whatever she's doing, throw off her groove, spoil her mood. It's like she's in a different world when she's painting.

Still, he ought to check on her. She can't be in that serious a mood if she left the studio to buzz him in. He still doesn't have a key to her place. That's all right with him as long as she still lets him in.

He puts his briefcase down and hangs his jacket over a chair. No point in risking his suit, but he doesn't have any other clothes here (yet, he hopes). Kara's apartment is sparkling clean compared to how messy her studio is. He tries not to touch anything that'll stain and knocks on the door.

"Come in!" she hollers through the door, and he takes a deep breath and walks in. She's painting, wearing one of his white dress shirts with the sleeves rolled off and only her panties on underneath, apparently. Her bare legs are splattered with red and blue and yellow and so is the dropcloth on the floor.

"Hey," he says, falling in love all over again just like he does every time he sees her. God, she makes him feel like a schoolboy, all feeling, with no control of his urges. He doesn't even care about the shirt.

"Clothes off," she orders, pointing the brush at him.

"What?" he asks, startled.

"You heard me, Adama," she says. "At least, part of you did." She gestures at his trousers, which going along with the schoolboy theme have betrayed the instantaneous erection he got at her words.

"Yes, ma'am," he says, loosening his tie and unbuttoning his shirt. She watches him take off his clothes and fold them carefully over the sculpture-in-progress that looks the least sticky.

"All of 'em," she tells him when he hesitates to take off his boxer-briefs, so he strips them off and dangles them over his shoes before dropping them. He saunters over to her.

"Well?"

"I want you," she says, pushing him a little with each word. "Up against the wall." If he wasn't hard already, he'd be hard now, with her body pressed up against his, warm through the crisp fabric of his shirt.

"You got me there," he says, his voice raspy. "Now what are you going to do with me?"

"Commit you to canvas," she whispers, standing on tiptoe so that her lips are right against his mouth. One after the other she poses his arms and legs so that she's standing just the way she wants him. It takes all the willpower he has not to scoop her up in his arms or gently grab a handful of her hair and move her faces a few inches until she's right where he wants her too. She straightens up, leaning into him again, and runs the paint-soaked brush down his side and he shivers at the way the bristles tickle. "Stand still. Oh, and close your eyes."

He stands there, naked, completely vulnerable, listening to her feet pad away. He hears the gloopy noise as she plunks a brush into paint and then splat! A spray of paint hits him across the chest. It's cold and wet and he yelps.

"Stand still!" Kara reminds him.

"It's cold!" he says. "Why don't I get a say in this?"

"Call it my artistic temperament," she says. "Call it your benefit. Now stand _still_ , Adama, and keep that pretty mouth closed too."

She whips more paint at him. This time it hits him lower, across the belly and thighs; he hisses at the chill of the paint. It's incredibly sexy, though, listening to her dance around the room, humming to herself, moving from bucket to bucket of paint, apparently, because sometimes he gets splashed from both sides at once by a crossfire of drops. Every now and then she makes her way over to him and drags the brush over his skin. He doesn't know how long it goes on - he's painfully turned on and dripping with paint by the time she almost tenderly wipes the paint off his face with a damp soapy rag and then a clean one and wakes him up with a kiss.

"You are a mess," she tells him as he blinks his eyes open, splashes of colors all around the edges of his vision where she hasn't wiped all the paint away.

"I wonder how that happened," he says wryly.

"You're a good sport, Lee," she says. "Points for good behavior."

"Can I have a shower first?" he asks.

"And get all that all over my floor?" she asks, mock incredulity in her voice. "Hell no. But you can come over to the sink and I'll wash you off."

"I can't turn down an offer like that," he tells her.

She fills the sink with warm, soapy water and dips a rag into it. She wrings the extra water out of it and plants it in the middle of his chest, wiping a line down and across his hipbone. Excruciatingly slowly, she washes him down. The water in the sink turns all different colors and settles to a muddy grey. She drains it and runs fresh warm water through the faucet, sponging him down with a clean rag.

"You're lucky I use the miscible oils," she tells him, sliding the rag down the back of his thigh.

"I have no idea what that means," he says, and she laughs.

"It means I can get this off with soap and water and not with turpentine," she says. "At least this way you smell like juniper dish soap."

"I'll take what I can get," he says, grabbing another rag and scrubbing the last flecks of paint out of his arm hair.

"You'll get plenty," she says, and still kneeling in front of him she grabs him around the backs of the knees and pulls him down to the floor. Sometime while his eyes were closed, she seems to have shed her underwear, because she certainly isn't wearing any when she straddles him and guides him into her.

"No foreplay?" he chokes out.

"What do you think that was?" she challenges him, rocking her hips. She's still wearing the shirt, anyway, though it's not really white anymore, and it's unbuttoned so that he catches frustratingly tantalizing glimpses of her cleavage as she bends over him.

"Point," he says, and groans. She's wet and hot and she knows just how to handle him, just how to move. He grabs her paint-dappled thighs. "Slow down, baby, you're too much."

"You better hope you can handle it," she whispers, "because Kara Thrace doesn't slow down for anybody." She moves faster, the dropcloth rustling under their bodies, and he thrusts up, because if she's going for broke, he'll be damned if he's not coming too. He cups her fantastic breasts in his hands as she bears down on him, and now the colors in front of his eyes aren't paint anymore, it's the only way his mind can handle the sensations, turn them from searing pleasure into vivid, lucid color. He looks up at her, helpless, as her back arches and she grits her teeth.

"Come on, Adama," she growls, and then he's gone, gravity all upended so that he's falling into her as all of the colors flash to black.

"No wonder the art kids had a reputation," he says when he can talk again.

She slugs him in the shoulder and eases off him, propping her head up on her elbow as she lies next to him.

"Don't you want to see the painting?" she asks him, and he rolls her over so that he can see the big canvas propped up against the wall. He's there, outlined in blue and red and yellow splashes and splatters and daubs and a bright gold streak in his hand. "What's that?"

"The Arrow of Apollo," she says drowsily. "Legendary, just like this one." She cups her fingers around his wilting cock and laughs at her own joke.

"Going to sell that one?" he asks.

"Don't know yet," she says. "Might keep it for my personal collection."

"Well, I'll model for you any time," he tells her.

"Damn right you will," she says, like there was never any question in her mind that he could say no.


End file.
